


Mindless

by ElvenMaia



Series: Inkwell [9]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Blankets, Cute, Domestic Fluff, Elven Wine, Gen, Sleepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:29:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25604350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenMaia/pseuds/ElvenMaia
Summary: Southern patrol in Mirkwood is becoming more and more difficult with the enroaching darkness. Legolas finds reprieve in his father’s study after returning from said patrol. Perhaps small, mindless gestures are more valuable than one may think, because if they do not come from the mind, they come from the heart.
Relationships: Legolas Greenleaf & Thranduil
Series: Inkwell [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528916
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	Mindless

_**~Inkwell Series~** _

Mindless

To put it simply, Legolas was sore. Terribly so.

He had been helping reinforce the outposts on the Southern border for the past few months, and his journey back to the palace had not been completed without toil.

He stared down at the half-finished reports on the desk in front of him and back to a gap of dark navy sky in the patchwork of stone. Clouds shrouded the bright pinnacles of the stars tonight.

Rising from his seat, Legolas concluded that staring at the reports for another hour would not grant them the ability to write themselves and decided that he would much rather stare at something else.

He ambled down the winding halls and thresholds to the elaborate door of his father’s study. It was more thoughtfully furnished and decorated than his bedchamber, but then again the king did spend twice as much time in his study than in his private chambers.

He did not really know why he had come to this place, only that it made him feel... safe. Perhaps just the barest semblance, but it was surely there.

Legolas murmured a request for a goblet of heated and spiced wine to a passing servant and made good use of the overstuffed sofa in the seating parlor outside his father’s study.

Minutes passed as if trapped in molasses. He was aware of every ache and bruise and scratch on his skin as they stung in pulsating waves in tune with his heartbeat.

Deciding that counting his pulse would eventually drive him mad, especially in this exhausted state, Legolas eased himself back onto his feet, feeling heavier than he did a minute ago.

Grimacing as every ligament in his body protested to the movement, he marched ahead to his father’s desk and fingered some of the reports that lay scattered about it. They were of a different nature than the ones he himself was charged with reviewing, but he had neither the desire nor the energy to divert his attention to the subject of his king’s duties.

It seemed that his mind was just as weary as his body. His _súlë_ itself felt weighed down, almost beaten like an over-eager puppy who had been kicked into a corner for his troubles of play.

His _súlë_ was wild, and _oh_ so very Silvan, taking after his mother. This is why he oft went along by himself to grant reprieve to his _súlë_ in the presence of the great trees it rejoiced in so, for otherwise he had to trap it in the cage of his body as he went about the throes of his duty as prince of the realm.

The Shadow in the South had left his naïve _súlë_ spat upon and shunned so that it was forced to take shelter within himself as he never had before. It was truly a menace.

His legs decided that they wanted no more of this ‘moving about’ nonsense a second before he began to make his way back to the sofa with stiff, agonizing slowness. He collapsed upon the cushions fully, making up his mind that he would content himself with staring into the dancing tongues of fire in the hearth as the servant returned with his drink.

Of course, no such thing happened and he was asleep within the minute.

It was that moment Thranduil had ambled into the study after an emergency call to review the rosters of a supposed missing elf. It seemed that the numbers had been inaccurate to the actual count of warriors, but it had all been an unfortunate mix-up.

Unfortunate for Thranduil, indeed, for every hour was precious and he had much work to do.

What had concerned him, though, was the fact that the lists had been written by Legolas. As Captain of the patrol that had just returned from the South, it was the prince’s duty to account for his warriors. Not often did the young prince stumble in his duties. The poor lad must have been more severely affected by the change indeed. It would take time to adjust.

The thought that they would need to adjust to this darkness at all was a bitter thing to Thranduil.

Without further ado, the Sinda swept into his study, his mind set on finishing a certain stack of reports that had been gnawing on his nerves ever since they were assigned.

But of course, it was difficult to simply pass by the crumpled form of his sleeping son sprawled unbecomingly on the sofa. With a light smile brightening a weary face, the Sinda gingerly rearranged his son’s limbs into a more comfortable position and draped his heavy ornamental cloak over the sleeping figure.

Just then, a young maid peeked inside the study. The king beckoned her forwards and she delivered a steaming goblet of spiced wine, something Legolas had presumably ordered but had not been able to stay awake long enough to enjoy.

Settling behind his desk after the maid departed, Thranduil lifted the goblet in a silent toast shared with only himself and the dreams of his son before taking a long, welcome draft to settle his frayed nerves.

Relations between father and son were somewhat tense at the moment, but it was mindless gestures as these that wove a bridge between them; a mindless tether that kept them within the reaches of the deepest wells of the other’s heart.

Long days were ahead, and not all would be as readily greeted with sleeping elves and spiced wine.

oOoOoOo

**A/N** : Ahhh well, it seems that however long you may keep a story in the ‘in-progress’ folder, it will never, ever write itself... unless you dare dream of actually going to bed some night. The prose likes to wake up then ;P.

**Thank you dearly for sticking by me through all, Scribbles!! You are amazing _mellon nin!_**


End file.
